Centaurea Cyanus

Brian Solis said, “Memories are the architecture of our identity.” Memories give us the ability to be aware of ourselves and alter our existence. Without memory, how do I even know I exist? I feel as though I am floating in the plasma of time, unable to return to my past, and unable to move forward without it. They say it is my own mind keeping me here. It feels ironic when all I think about is leaving this place.

I close my eyes, trying to force the memories to appear, to picture myself in my past, but all I can see is me in my current state; too thin, straggly blonde hair, that I haven’t washed for five days now, gray hospital sweats, the pale floor tiles, and the excruciating, white walls in every room.

I open my eyes and pick up my notebook, flipping through the pages, reading my own words without any recognition of the events. I rush back here after each session to write everything down that they tell me, a collection of memories, but not my own. They say I must remember before I can get out, so I am memorizing my existence as if I were studying for an exam, which I assume that I have done in the past, but of which I have no memory to know for sure.

I find the beginning and start reading, attempting to collect all the words, and keep them inside my faulty mind.

“I run the brush through my hair one last time,” I say aloud to the empty walls before continuing in silence. The blonde strands remind me of a single wave of golden silk flowing over my shoulders. Back before I stopped taking showers, stopped brushing my hair, stopped caring, I think to myself, but I won’t say that to them. I lay the brush on the sink and smooth my summer dress with its blue corn flowers. I push a fleck of fallen mascara off my face and reach for the light switch as I walk towards the door. I made this part of the story up because I thought it would seem more believable if I remembered details, I don’t know if they believe me, but I keep repeating it anyhow.

I can’t remember what happened next, I just know what they’ve told me. I run to the car, slide into the passenger seat, turn, and smile wide, then there’s a brief conversation.

“Hi!”

“Hey.”

“Where are we going?”

“I want to show you my house.”

“Okay! That sounds fun.”

We drive for ten minutes before pulling into a driveway. A big white house with black shutters and a black door sits back, a perfectly manicured lawn sprawled before it. Then another brief conversation.

“Wow. This is your house?”

“Yea.”

“It’s so nice. I love it!”

He turns off the ignition and we walk through the towering front door into the foyer of his house. He leads me down a dark hallway and then we turn a corner and ascend a set of stairs. He never turns on any lights. I don’t know why this is important, it seems like a stupid detail, but they keep repeating it to me. One time I tried to skip this detail, and they asked, “but do you know why you tripped?” I said because there were books, but they reminded me that I didn’t turn on the stupid lights. Why didn’t he turn on the lights? Anyhow, I keep following him, up the stairs, down another long hallway, and then I tripped over that pile of books that I didn’t see. Hard covers flew across the hallway, making thuds as they connected with the other side, the recognizable sound of paper tearing from the paperbacks, and then the sound of me falling face first and hitting my head, so hard that it knocked me out. They say it all happened so quickly.

Then they say he stopped in his tracks, turning around to rush towards me. That he called 911 within minutes. But I don’t believe it, I know I am not a reputable source, that I said I can’t remember anything, but there’s this thought that I can’t get out of my head.

I haven’t told anyone this, they wouldn’t believe me anyhow, not yet, not until I can remember more. They’re right that he stopped in his tracks, but that’s where the parallelism ends, after turning around to face me, then he knelt towards the floor, picking up the scattered books, as he made his way back towards me.

“Are you alright?” he asks me. I expected him to be more worried, but his voice was even keeled, he was walking slowly, carefully picking up the books. He must really love books, I remember thinking, he’s so calm, that’s a good trait, I changed the narrative inside my head, I am overreacting, of course I am okay, he shouldn’t be concerned, he knows this, that’s why he’s being so calm, I should be calmer.

“Yes. I am so sorry. Are your books okay? I think I ripped one.”

“Yea. Don’t worry about them. You could have turned on a light if you couldn’t see.”

He’s right, how could I have been so silly, all this time, I was struggling to see, and all I had to do was turn on a light, this was all my fault. I suck in my pride, and swallow, to bury it deep inside of me, smile pretty and casually laugh.

“Yea, I’m okay. I’m such a klutz.”

I hoped my fire engine red cheeks wouldn’t give away my humiliation; I followed cautiously the last few feet to the door, and followed him into the dark room, the only light emanating from the television, an image frozen on its screen. Pillows littered the floor in front of the tv, a paper bag, a bottle of wine, and two glasses sat neatly at the edge.

He turned around, flashing his killer smile my way, and held out his hand to help me onto cloud nine. We sat facing each other as he opened the paper bag filled with take-out food and then grabbed the glasses.

“Do you like Merlot?”

I shrugged, “I don’t really know that much about wine.”

“It’s my favorite. The only wine worth drinking.”

I smiled at his pragmatic comment and swirled the glass of Merlot before taking a sip.

I close my notebook and slide it between the stack of books filled with how to remember, signs of memory loss, amnesia and then walk into the hallway and towards their door. I struggle to remember anyone’s name, so I just refer to everyone as their, they or them. They think that I am being stubborn, but they don’t know that I don’t know their name, so I am keeping up the charade for now.

I sit in the chair and start rambling before they even have a chance to say hello; I am worried that I might forget something.

I run the brush through my hair one more time. The blonde strands join in a single wave of golden silk flowing down to my shoulders. I lay the brush on the sink and smooth the barely there summer dress with its yellow marigolds. I wanted to look good for our first date. I push a fleck of fallen mascara off my face and reach for the light switch as I walk towards the door.

I run out to the waiting car and slip inside, my dress barely covering my butt as I slide into the passenger seat. I turn and smile wide.

“Hi!”

“Hey.”

“Where are we going?”

“Stop.”

I pause, the words, “I want to show you my house.” resting on my lips.

“Last time you said that the flowers on your dress were blue corn flowers. This time you said they were marigolds.”

“I did?”

“Yes. Why did you change the flowers?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you remember what your dress looked like?”

I glare, if I say too much, I will give away my ruse.

“It’s okay, we can stop here for today. I just have one more question. Can you tell me your name?”

I am caught off guard, this seems too easy, I part my lips and expect the words to tumble off my tongue without thought, but my mouth is dry and empty. I press my lips back together and clench my teeth.

I walk back to my room, solemn, focused, trying to keep all the words inside my head. Blue cornflower dress I repeat to myself until I reach my room. I shut the door, grab my notebook, and write “I lay the brush on the sink and smooth the barely there summer dress with its blue corn flowers” between the blue lines on the pages.